


Truth Hertz

by Tridraconeus



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Electrocution, Gags, Gen, Medical Torture, Mentions of Suicide, Nonconsensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Threats of Violence, Torture, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: His hair was standing on end. He heard breathing that was not his own. He stopped, froze, straining his ears for any more clues. He was desperate to not get any.He knew whose realm this was, and he had not endeared himself to the man at all.“Is there someone there?” He heard after another long moment. It was on the high, sharp side of male, made him tense up even more, and after three seconds passed with no reply a wave of electricity slammed into him and he screamed.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Truth Hertz

**Author's Note:**

> There’s just so much good Doc fic lately I had to jump on the bandwagon by… torturing Ver, my favorite punching bag grief counselor. This was originally a part of Full Moon, but I made a pact with myself that noncon is not something I want to write, and this would be... noncon!

“Meg! Give me back the damn toolbox!” He leapt to his feet and sprinted after her, even knowing he had no hopes of actually catching her. She laughed at him and ducked behind a tree. 

He followed. Meg was a whirl of red hair and the beaten gray toolbox, always just out of reach, and finally she darted away and the fog separated them.

Fuck, the fog! He slowed from a sprint to a jog, and then from a jog to an apprehensive shuffle, turning over his shoulder and predictably seeing more fog and the Entity’s trees.

“...Meg?”

No luck. She was gone. The campfire, Meg, his toolbox, all gone. 

He needed to get back. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, put his head down, and forged into the fog. He wasn’t even sure if he could get back on his own. 

He took a few deep, steadying breaths and continued on until the fog began to thin, depositing himself at the behemoth entrance to the Memorial Institute with all its chilly, nippy air and carved stone columns.

Ver had never liked Léry’s. It was kind of a wreck, and actively unsettling and terrifying, but so was everywhere else in the Entity’s realm.

It was a hospital. Ver had never liked hospitals after his accident. He knew, academically, that he owed his recovery to the doctor and nurses who had taken care of him when his internal injuries were so severe they thought he might not make it— to Caroline, the nurse who had taken the day off to walk him all ten miles home when he had a full-blown panic attack and refused to get into the car. There was nothing about a hospital to be scared of. Hell, he even got about half his clinical hours at the university hospital. There was so much grief to go around there and always something he could do to help.

Léry’s was a nightmare. Awful things had happened in the real Léry’s, and awful things were happening in the Entity’s Léry’s, too. 

Ver allowed himself to hope that it was abandoned. If it wasn’t, the smart thing to do would be to turn about and dive back into the fog— if it was, Ver could cut through, and hope that passing through the other gate would trigger the weird roulette of realms and with luck it would turn over on the campfire. 

He circled outside for a few seconds and when nothing happened except him starting to shiver, he continued inside the facility.

The chattering televisions and sickly orange glow of the treatment theatre greeted him within five minutes of walking. He skirted around the edge and into a short hallway instead— he recognized it as the hallway that led to where the basement usually was, an office on top of that.

His hair was standing on end. He heard breathing that was not his own. He stopped, froze, straining his ears for any more clues. He was desperate to not get any. 

He knew whose realm this was, and he had not endeared himself to the man at all. 

“Is there someone there?” He heard after another long moment. It was on the high, sharp side of male, made him tense up even more, and after three seconds passed with no reply a wave of electricity slammed into him and he screamed. 

Then he ran. The Doctor’s chair screeched against the wood floorboards as he lunged up to give chase, more familiar with the claustrophobic twists and turns of the hospital than Ver was. He was always just around the corner when Ver turned, no matter how many times he twisted and ran the other way. 

His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, but it was his, not the Entity’s early-warning call. He was a trespasser, not a survivor in a trial-- either way he was still _prey_. 

He ducked into a doorway— washrooms. Beyond that, another hallway. The Doctor was right on his tail so he vaulted a window— he was caught by the hood, and hauled back, but he’d learned that he wasn’t bound by the rules of a trial just as much as the Doctor wasn’t, so he shimmied out of it and his shirt in the process. The desperate undressing bought himself a few seconds lead. Just enough to dash down the hallway into the room at the end.

An operating room.

A dead end.

He muffled a cry of distress and whipped around, but was too late— the hulking figure of the Doctor blocked the doorway and was advancing on him. Ver glanced up instead of at his weapon, a mistake, but also saw that he didn’t have that awful device prying his face open on. He could speak without it.

With it, he could only laugh. Ver wasn’t sure which one would be less terrifying right now. Sparks leapt from his body and squirreled around the linoleum tiles, played over his shoulder like an affectionate puppy. Ver opened his mouth— to beg?— and managed only a terrified keen. 

“What an awful affliction.” 

The Doctor’s eyes flitted over his body. Suddenly self-conscious, and irritated, and perhaps even a tiny bit enraged under his terror, he bared his teeth and crossed his arms over his bare chest. 

The Doctor laughed. It was an easy action, for him, made more electricity dance from the coils in his flesh to skitter across his skin and the floor. Ver’s hair was standing on end and his teeth hurt. “I’m not concerned with whichever pitiful ways you choose to carve up your body, no. It’s your mind that interests me.”

He was hugging himself. He couldn’t help it. The Doctor tossed his hoodie at him idly and it landed at his feet, and he was so eager to tug it over himself again that he would have been bent for a blow to the back of the head if the Doctor wanted it-- then at least he would be dead. Better than being half-naked and vulnerable, at any rate.

He let him retrieve his hoodie and pull it on instead, which meant that he was planning something even worse. He didn’t do things for no reason. He was taking a step forward.

“Don’t—” his mouth was dry. He swallowed uselessly and backed up until his back nudged the operating table. He should have ran around, put it between them, but it was too late to turn his back on the man now. “Please, I didn’t mean—”

The Doctor seized him around the throat, lifted him clear off of his feet, and slammed him down onto one of the operating tables. It was very ungraceful, brutal and hard, and the impact would have stunned him if the continued current of electricity wasn’t stunning him already. As it was, it was another layer of terror and discomfort. The Doctor’s fingers dug into the yielding flesh of his throat before he withdrew.

“Did you think you were the only ones who could learn in this realm? I have a file on you, my little patient.” The Doctor laughed again. It was scratchier this time. Meaner. Ver’s skin crawled and he opened his mouth to try and scream, but his jaw was still locked up from the disabling shock still in the process of frying his brain. “Altruistic to your own detriment.” He was circling the table now, even though that left a small opening for Ver to take advantage of if he so chose. If he even could— which he couldn’t. “Bold, also to your own detriment. One would worry that you had... self-terminating urges.”

Ver tried to speak again. He made a high-pitched keening crying noise— he was crying. His entire body was agonizingly tense and incapable of unfreezing, like all his muscles were cramping and spasming at once. He pitched himself off of the table and collapsed in a heap on the ground. The Doctor didn’t stop his fall or keep him on the table, just stepped over him and leaned over to examine the way he twitched. 

“As you can imagine, we take that very seriously here.”

He’d never thought of it that way before. He hated to admit it, but the Doctor had a point. A really shitty point, but a point— so what if he came back? He still died. He knew it. He was scared of it, and didn’t want to die, but if he was on a hook and someone else was at a gate, he’d give up the fight so they could escape. If it was down to him and someone else, he’d step in front of a weapon swing even if that meant he’d be downed and hooked. His life was worth as much as it took to get the others out alive. Him surviving didn’t factor into that equation at all. That sort of behavior was, strictly speaking, suicidal. 

“Mr. Levant, was it?” 

How did the Doctor know his name? What did the file say? It was the Entity; had to be. His blood ran cold even though the rest of him was consumed by the searing crackle of electricity. “Verreaux. Charming name.” 

The fizzling agony was receding, leaving him twitchy and panting raggedly on the ground. “Hm, but it also notes that you prefer to be called Ver.”

His name sounded wrong in that man’s mouth. He tried to cry out a protest and it came out unintelligible— he was weeping now that his body was capable of it. His helpless twitching spasms of electrocution had dissolved into horrified trembling.

“If you’ll lay down on the table, we can begin treatment.” The Doctor gave an unsettling little giggle like he hadn’t just bulldozed through all the layers Ver had that made him feel at least somewhat comfortable in this awful situation by the simple action of whittling his _full name_ down to his _nickname_. 

He willed his shaking body under control and forced himself to his feet, trying to appear compliant. That was good. He could stand.

If he could stand, he could run. The very second that the Doctor took his attention off of him, he lunged for the door to dart through it and rabbit down the hallway. His bold plan was cut painfully short as the Doctor seized him by the hood again, dragging him back over the threshold, and gathered the fabric in his fist until Ver was pulled tightly to his side like a heeled dog on a choke chain-- _learned_ , then, to not leave any slack. He’d created the opportunity for himself by tossing Ver’s clothes back to him, and Ver, foolishly, had been caught in a trap of his own making.

He cried out, alarm and despair, and thrashed until white spots appeared in his vision. The Doctor was laughing at his misfortune. Another wave of static slammed into him, white-hot, and he screamed as the room swam and he felt something in his head click.

It left him limp and pliable for the Doctor to drag him over to the examination table. It had leather straps on it, painfully obvious in their use, and by the time Ver was aware enough to react he’d already been secured around the wrists with the Doctor circling around to his legs.

Well, that wouldn’t do. He cocked one leg back as if to kick the man. Dumb, yes, but he didn’t want whatever was about to happen to him to happen. His heart was racing and he hurt. He felt like he’d been fucked up for hours and he’d only been in the facility for fifteen minutes at most.

“Don’t make me have to use this,” the Doctor told him, stern but eager— Ver thought he’d rather like to have to use the tool, a thick rod with spikes on it. 

It was enough to make him set his leg back down. The Doctor chuckled at his sudden cooperation and set the weapon to the side, fastening Ver’s ankles into the restraints. 

“I never get quality time with patients anymore.” He sounded almost wistful. Ver knew that the Doctor was not actually a doctor, was a hostile government agent now without a government. He was an awful, sadistic man and he didn’t deserve the title _doctor_. _The Interrogator_ didn’t have quite the same ring to it, evidently.

He didn’t have time to react before the Doctor shoved something in his mouth, then seized him by the hair to yank his head up, chin to his chest, to buckle it behind his head. His mouth was forced open around something that only a second later he recognized was a bite blocker. It was a tough rubber thing that would keep him from biting his own tongue off, or from grinding his teeth together, but it was also a very effective impromptu gag. 

He screamed. Indignant, and shamed, and terrified. Stupid Ver. Stupid boy. He should have just run back into the fog. 

“The patient is ready to begin treatment,” the Doctor announced to an empty room but for himself and Ver. Ver pitched and thrashed uselessly— he was going nowhere. He was trapped here, at the mercy of this merciless man, and he was already weeping but his cries took on a fiercer, louder edge. 

The Doctor had the audacity to tut at him and tap the table by his shoulder.

“It’s just a brief... procedure. To settle your racing mind. You’ll be a model patient when I’m through with you.“

Brief procedure. Model patient. He didn’t like any of that. He didn’t like being restrained, and he didn’t like the gag, and he was still weakly spasming from the aftershocks of his prior doses of the Doctor’s maddening spark. 

He didn’t have time to do anything else before he was screaming again. The Doctor’s hands were hovering at either side of his head, sending a sustained pulse of unearthly electricity right through each temple. It was white-hot agony that blanked out his entire vision and he was suddenly grateful for the bite blocker when his jaw seized and clamped down so hard it creaked. 

He thought he was going to die. He wanted to die. It was too much sensation, all of it excruciating, and his body reacted to it in awful, painful ways. His chest lifted off of the table and bowed severely backwards, muscles between his shoulder blades twinging with the effort. Tears streamed from his eyes. The whole while, electricity coursed through his body and especially his head. 

When the Doctor pulled back Ver was still screaming. White spots popped in his vision as the room came back in hazy, wavering patches.

“Five seconds complete. Continuing to ten seconds.”

That had only been five seconds? It had felt like an eternity. There was no way he was going to survive ten. It was going to kill him. He shrieked, the only way he could react while his mouth was filled and his body was too shaky to respond to him, but the Doctor didn’t care about whether his patient had consented to the treatment or not.

His world dissolved into static and agony again. It was centered more in his head, like it was being mapped out and contoured by the flickering trail of pain. He was screaming, still, but was rapidly growing hoarse. The stimulation honestly felt like some weird powerwash— he felt something in his head get knocked loose, but it felt like something that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The pain ebbed somewhat until it was merely intensely uncomfortable and prickling instead of agonizing, but it only took him a second to realize that it still hurt as badly as it always did-- he just couldn’t feel it. Whatever the Doctor was doing to him was pushing over the limits of his pain tolerance. His body was shutting down around him, then, coughing out convulsions that he couldn’t even feel.

He stopped screaming. He was too tired; he needed to breathe. He sucked and chewed on the bite blocker to keep from screaming again. The Doctor peered down at him and grinned.

“Thirty seconds.”

Whatever reaction he’d been hoping for, he didn’t get it. Ver was too dazed to voluntarily react. Ten seconds hadn’t killed him; maybe thirty would. God, he wanted it to. The room wavered in and out of view, sparks following the veins in his eyes. 

He’d been given just long enough of a break that the return of the overwhelming current entering through his temples tore a scream from him. Once again he convulsed, limbs wholly out of control. His elbow knocked the side of the operation table and he didn’t even notice even though it would bruise; he lasted eight seconds before screaming one final time, twelve seconds before his eyes lost shine, twenty-three seconds before he passed out even as his body continued to seize. The leather kept him from jerking out or falling off. 

Unconsciousness was not black; that would be soothing. That would be void. Death, even, would be black and that would mean he was done.

White. Hospital white, and then red. The Doctor was hovering over him; he choked out a sob.

“Thirty seconds of a low-level current.”

The low-level current was surprisingly not as bad, if only because he couldn’t feel the majority of his body. It still made him tense up and shake, but to a far milder degree; and it hurt, but he was warm and sore enough that it registered only as hurt.

He was feeling somewhat, involuntarily calmer; he was crying without the motions of crying, tears streaming down his face but nothing else. The low-level current traveled through his head and then the rest of his body with a low crackling hum. 

“As I said,” the Doctor said at the end of the thirty seconds, when Ver was laying dazedly still on the table, “a model patient. All behavioral issues resolved.”

His hand cupped Ver’s cheek, turning his head and examining his distant gaze, the wet streaks of tears down his cheeks, the leather straps of the bite-blocker gag. He lifted Ver’s head to get to the buckle, brushed some hair out of the way, and pulled it out. As soon as he could, Ver took a deep, ragged breath, and fell still again.

The Doctor left him there as he paced around the operating room, humming to himself. Ver let his eyes close. Maybe he’d die.

He was so tired. A slight clinking sound made him open his eyes again and he glanced at the source— he was being freed. He didn’t try to move until all of his limbs were free. Without being asked he sat up and slid off of the operating table, only to immediately feel his knees buckle and force him to lean heavily against the table. He was panting again.

“Hm, a little shaky on your feet. Why don’t you sit down in the waiting room?” The Doctor’s voice was fiendishly amused. There wasn’t even a mockery of professionalism; he wasn’t even trying. Ver was too fuzzed-out to notice or care much even if he had. He nodded stupidly, head feeling numb and far away. He didn’t feel bad, but he didn’t feel particularly good, either. His entire body was worn out from the violent stimulation and his brain was quite literally fried. It was nothing the Entity couldn’t fix. Nothing that time couldn’t fix.

The Doctor steered him out into one of the decrepit waiting rooms with a hand on his upper back. Ver barely kept from stumbling. He felt light and dreamy by the time he sat down; was feeling good, now, pleasantly hollowed out. 

He must have sat there for half an hour before he felt even somewhat normal. 

No point in sticking around. He was lucky he hadn’t been torn apart. Even more lucky to have been left unattended. The Doctor was going to be pissed when he got back and found that Ver was gone, but that was a problem for his overinflated ego to deal with, not Ver. 

He got all the way to the exit of the hospital before he heard an enraged roar somewhere within it. He took one look back, and then a look into the fog, and sprinted into it without a second thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you would like to see a continuation of this that is Smut! And probably snuff because let’s be real, it’s the Doctor. Kudos and comments make my day.


End file.
